by Curry, Edna
“Oh, yeah. Okay, I'll shave it off.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I don't like it, anyway. It itches.”
“All right, you can come with me. I guess finding that woman or someone else who thinks you're John is worth a try. We can slip out of town the back way so we don't run into the sheriff.”
He smiled. “Good.”
“It's almost ten o'clock. The news should be on. Let's watch it.”
They moved to the living area and she sat on the couch. He sat beside her and casually threw an arm along the back of the couch behind her. Lacey's pulse sped up, but she pretended not to notice and kept her eyes on the television, trying to pay close attention to the news when her body wanted to pay attention to him.
She'd almost abandoned hope of hearing any more details on the murder when the newscaster gave an update. As they'd expected, the sheriff had put out an APB on Paul's truck. They described it and flashed the license plate number on the screen.
Paul sat up straighter. “I hope they don't hassle any of my employees. I can't afford to have them tied up and not working. Bad enough for me to be off the road.”
Also the police announced that they had found a shoe print near the body. They were sure the perpetrator wore a size twelve.
Lacey asked, “What size do you wear?”
Paul stared at her. He sat up straighter and removed his arm from behind her. “Still don't trust me, eh?”
Lacey flushed. “It's not that, Paul. But if it's not your size, it could help clear you.”
“It's not. I wear a size ten. I don't even own any regular leather shoes, only running shoes and these boots that I wear to work.” He stuck out a foot to show her the serviceable, brown leather boot he was wearing.
“That's good. But by itself, it won't be enough to clear you,” she cautioned.
“I suppose not.”
“You'd better get some sleep. You look beat.”
“Thanks,” he grinned and rose and stretched. “You're right. I'm a little behind on my sleep. I don't get much out on the road.”
Lacey returned his grin.
“You know,” he said, “You have the cutest hazel eyes and softest, curly brown hair I've ever seen.” He leaned down to push a curl out of her eyes. “Very nice. Sexy, even.”
“Oh?” Her heart pounded and she wondered what had brought that assessment on. Her breath caught in her throat as their gazes locked. She tried to lighten the mood by saying lightly, “I'm not even a little bit obnoxious, then?”
“Nope. Not even a little bit.”
She watched him as he headed for the front door. Nice buns, she thought. And broad shoulders. The kind of man a woman wants to come home to. Now where did that thought come from? She wasn't in the market for a man. She especially didn't want to get involved with a client. It always complicated things in an unpleasant way.
He paused at the door and looked quizzically at her. “Ready for bed?”
For a heart stopping moment, she thought he meant with him. Of course, he didn't. What a shocking thought, especially right after she'd been admiring his physique. “In a minute,” she stammered past the sudden lump in her throat. She got up from the couch and headed for her office, then realized she had to pass him to get to it and stopped. “I need to check my e-mail. I'll see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, then.” He disappeared outside.
She closed and locked the door after him and went on down to her office.
***
Pastor Bob Sawyer was working late in his office at the First Lutheran Church where he'd served for the past ten years. He was tired after dealing with a confirmation class of a dozen young teens who couldn't care less about learning the meaning of the Ten Commandments. A good friend and parishioner had died and he had to write an appropriate sermon for the service tomorrow.
The church was very quiet. Only the soft click of his computer keys broke the silence. Even the furnace fan kicking in on this chilly spring night was enough noise to make him jump. He knew he was just nervous because there had been a rash of church robberies in the area lately, and he was here alone at night.
So, when he heard the definite click of the church's front door closing, the hair on the back of his neck rose. He debated turning off the office light and pretending not to be there, but knew whoever it was had probably already seen the light from the street and knew he was inside.
Bob's heart pounded and now the silence seemed eerie. He wasn't a brave man about physical danger. All of his life he'd shied away from physical efforts and confrontations. His small size had a bearing on his timidity.
When he heard footsteps tapping on the tile floor in the hallway outside his office, he relaxed a bit, realizing it was a woman in high heels, not a burglar. A parishioner in distress?
Someone knocked softly on his office door. He drew a deep breath and went to the door, then let his breath whoosh out in relief at the sight of one the wealthiest members of his own flock. She was trying to wipe away the evidence of tears, which streaked the usually perfect make-up on her lined face.
“Mrs. Munson! Come in.”
“Pastor Bob, I'm so sorry to trouble you at this time of night. I know you must be busy with Mary's funeral tomorrow and all, but I had to see you.”
He took her hand and led her to one of the soft chairs at one end of his office. Sitting down opposite her, he said, “That's quite all right, Nora. What's the trouble?”
She swallowed and the tears started again. She bent her head and covered her face with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Her voice cracking and words muffled by the handkerchief, she said, “I...I don't know where to start. Oh, it's so awful.”
He stared at her, trying to guess the problem. Nora Munson and her husband, Hal owned a factory that assembled small household appliances and was very successful. They lived in a big house on the edge of town, and Nora was one of the most active society matrons of the town. As far as he knew they had no children or relatives in the area. “Is someone in your family hurt or sick?”
She shook her head vehemently. “Dead,” she moaned.
“Hal?” he asked in shock. He'd had coffee with the man only this morning at the Flame. What had happened?
“No,” she looked up at him, shaking her head. “Not Hal. Paul.”
“Paul?” He bit his lip, confused, wracking his brain for memory of anyone she had ever mentioned by that name.
Her lips trembled and she looked down at her hands. “One of my...sons.”
He swallowed and ran a hand over his crew cut. “Sons? I didn't know you had children.” He thought he knew this couple quite well and she'd often worked with the children in the church. He'd assumed she enjoyed doing that because she had none of her own. How could he not have known about sons?
Her eyes swung back to him in alarm. “Neither does Hal. You won't tell him? I mean, I am telling you this in confidence?”
“Yes, of course, Nora. You know that.” He often heard secrets from people's pasts, guilty secrets that were better left un-revealed except to God. It was nothing new to a pastor. He studied her tear-streaked face, and said kindly, “Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning.”
She sniffed and nodded. “I...I was raised on a farm. My parents were very strict and religious, but I was a bit of a rebellious teen. I wasn't allowed to date when the other kids did, so I started to sneak around.”
Pastor Bob nodded. He saw lots of that rebellion in the teenaged youngsters in his classes. “A natural reaction under those circumstances.”
Her voice wavered. “But not very smart of me. I knew nothing about sex or birth control. A handsome young married man sometimes did custom work for my parents.” At his blank look, she explained, “Custom work is work for hire, you know, like baling hay and combining oats. Farmers who had the right kind of machinery did the work for those who didn't have that machinery.”
“Oh. So, you met this man on your parents' farm?”
She nodded. “I was sometimes
sent out to the field in our pick-up to take him some lunch or a cold drink in hot weather. He always stopped work long enough to talk to me. He flattered me telling me how young and pretty I was, and I fell for his smooth line. Hook, line and sinker.”
“I see.”
“So, then we started meeting. He lived on a nearby farm and would come over if my parents were gone. My mother often attended the ladies meetings at church, so he'd know when she'd be gone. Dad would drive her into town, and often spent that time visiting his buddies at the tavern, especially in the winter when there wasn't much farm work.”
“His wife never suspected?”
She shrugged. “He'd tell his wife he had to go to town for some part to repair a piece of machinery, or to the tavern or whatever.”
“So, you got pregnant?”
She nodded, twisting her lacy handkerchief. “I didn't understand what was wrong with me for quite a while. I was only sixteen. Finally Mother suspected and took me to a doctor in the city. She didn't want anyone local to know.”
He closed his eyes against the familiar scenario. He'd seen it too often, the short sightedness of too strict parents which led to tragedy and ruined lives.
“They put me in a home for unwed mothers in Minneapolis that the doctor recommended. Then they told everyone I was spending some time with a great aunt who was ill and needed me.”
“Your baby was adopted?”
“Yes. Twin boys. I'd hoped they would be adopted by the same family, but they were separated. Twins are a lot of work, I suppose.”
“The father never knew?”
“Oh, yes, he knew. After my mother said that I was probably pregnant and demanded to know who I'd slept with, I wouldn't tell her. But I told him.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “He cussed me out royally for being so dumb as to get pregnant.”
Pastor Bob frowned. “But if he was married, and you were only sixteen....”
“Exactly,” she said, tossing him a grateful smile. “He was the one who should have known and should have used protection. I was too sheltered and young to know any better. But of course, I knew what we were doing was wrong.”
“Did your parents know who was the father?”
She shrugged. “I refused to tell, but I think Dad had his suspicions. He never hired that man again.”
“But you knew who adopted your babies?”
She shook her head. “No, they made me sign papers and told me the records were sealed forever.”
Pastor Bob frowned, confused. “But you said your son is dead. If you didn't know who adopted them, and the records were sealed, how do you know that?”
She fumbled with her brown leather purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping and thrust it at him.
Bob took it. It was the front page of Lander's weekly paper, which had come out that day. He looked down and recognized the artist's sketch, which had been the talk of the town the past two days. A photo next to it gave his name and a short biography.
“He was murdered. This picture was in yesterday's Minneapolis paper as the man they were looking for. Then today, I get this paper saying his landlady has identified him as the dead man, Paul Menns from Canton.”
“How can you be sure he's your son?”
Her red lips twisted wryly. “I'm sure. He's the spitting image of his father at that age, and I'll never forget the date of the day he was born. He's one of my twins, all right.”
“I see.” He handed the clipping back to her.
She slipped it back in her purse and nodded. “So I know it's my son, Paul, who is dead.”
“I'm sorry,” he said sincerely, wondering what she wanted him to do. Was she just looking for consolation and sympathy, someone to hear this confession? Or did she want more from him? God, he was tired. He wished he could go home to bed and forget about everyone else's problems. But of course, he couldn't. He waited for her to go on.
Twisting the handkerchief in her hands again, she said, “I need to claim the body. Paul must have a proper burial. The funeral home said he has no relatives, so no one had claimed him. I can't let my son be buried by the county.”
“Of course.” The Munsons had plenty of money, and she had lots of pride, besides. It was a natural desire on her part. “So, do you want me to do a funeral for him?”
She looked up, horrified. “Oh, no! The scandal! I can't let anyone know. Hal would divorce me!”
He nodded, waiting to hear what it was that she did want him to do.
She opened her purse again, and handed him a bank envelope, fat with hundred dollar bills. “I want you to take this to Harry at the funeral home and pay for a nice casket and burial. I still own a couple of empty lots next to my parents in a cemetery about twenty miles from here. It'll be close enough to visit him there, and anyone who sees me will assume I'm visiting my parents' graves.”
“I understand.”
She managed a grateful smile. “Here's the cemetery caretaker's name and the lot number. Just tell Harry's Funeral Home it's charity from an anonymous donor.”
He nodded, relieved at the simplicity of the request. “All right.”
“If that's not enough money, let me know and I'll get the rest.” She hesitated, twisting her handkerchief around her neatly manicured hands. “Maybe you could say a few words over him at the cemetery?”
“Of course, Nora. Whatever you'd like.”
“Thank you, Pastor Bob.”
He looked at her lined, tear-stained face and felt compassion. She'd obviously suffered dearly over the years for that youthful mistake. He asked quietly, “Will you be there? Do you want me to let you know when he's buried?”
She stiffened and sat very still for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. She said, “Yes, please. But don't call the house. I'll call you.”
“All right.” He gave in to curiosity and asked, “What about Paul's father? Will he be likely to see this picture too?”
Nora's brow dipped in a frown. “I suppose he'll see the papers. But I doubt he'll care enough to get involved. I hear he owns several large farms now, and is running for the state senate. I'm sure he'll stay out of this to avoid any hint of scandal.”
“Yes, of course.”
She rose to leave, then stopped and turned back to him. Slowly she asked, “Is there any way I could see Paul? I can't go to the funeral home. Too many people would see me and wonder why I'm there.”
He considered a moment. “I could request the casket be left open for the graveside service. It's unusual, but it's been done.”
Nodding, she whispered, “Thank you, Pastor.” Eyes brimming, she hurried out.
Chapter 6
The next morning, before Lacey was even up, the doorbell rang. She padded down the hall and answered the door, embarrassed when she saw that it was Paul. Sunlight sparkled off the blue lake behind him and a warm spring breeze swept inside with him.
A wide grin lit his clean-shaven, suntanned face as he stepped inside. His voice was as bright as the day. “Good morning, Sleepyhead.”
A warm flush crept up her face as she realized she was still in her robe. She closed the door. “Good morning. You shaved.”
“We agreed last night I should.”
“Oh, yes. So we did. I...I'll get dressed.”
“I'll start the coffee. You look delicious this morning, Lacey,” he said cheerfully. He leaned forward and kissed her lips lightly. As she stared at him in surprise, he let his gaze run appreciatively from her head down to her bare feet. “You have nice red-polished toenails. Why do you polish your toenails, but not your fingernails?”
Indeed, why did she? It was too early in the morning to think about that. “Vanity,” she said crossly. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. Do you want to eat here, or should we get something on the road?”
“Whatever you want to do is fine with me.” She retreated to her bedroom, and closed the door. Looking at herself in the mirror, she gasped. Her hair was a tousled mess, but he'd said she looked delicious.
And he'd kissed her. What a man. Smiling, she stepped into the shower.
When Lacey came back down the hall, she smelled coffee perking. Paul had fixed bacon and scrambled some eggs, too. Her stomach growled its approval.
“I fixed some breakfast. I heard your shower running, so I figured it'd be a few minutes before you'd be down.”
“Mmm, smells yummy,” she told him, wondering how soon she'd run out of food at this rate. The man could cook better than she, but had a huge appetite.
“Thanks. We need to stop at the grocery store on the way home tonight. You're running a bit low on some stuff.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered under her breath.
“Huh?”
“Sure, Paul,” she replied, relaxing the worried frown off her brow. Her Visa card had better still have some credit left on it.
“I'll buy,” he said cheerfully, seeming to read her thoughts. “Mom always said I had a hollow leg and ate enough for three people.”
“That's okay with me.” She sent him a grin and slid some bread into the toaster and poured their coffee as he piled food on their plates.
“I can't get used to the idea that I had a twin,” Paul said. “It was always only the three of us, Mom, Dad and me. It sure would have been great if they could have adopted both of us.”
“I'm sure it would have.”
“Did you have brothers and sisters?”
“One older brother, Ned, but we weren't close. He lives in California now and I rarely see him.”
“Are your parents still living?”
Lacey shook her head. “My Dad died years ago. My mother remarried when I was in high school. I was a rebellious teen and didn't like Carl much. That's when I came here to live with Uncle Henry. She and Carl live in his retirement home in Florida now.”
“So you are pretty much alone here, too.”
“Well, I do have a step-brother here in town, though we don't get along very well. He's Carl's son, Jerry. He and his wife, Elaine own a service station. They have a little boy, Jimmy, who's a doll. I stop in to see Elaine and Jimmy now and then.”
Yikes, why was she telling Paul all her family history? She never talked about her relatives, even to her friends. They all avoided the subject. What was the matter with her, revealing personal information to this guy?
